Help me up: RusEng
by ko-writes
Summary: The first of my hurt/comfort series 'Help Me Up'. This one's pairing is Russia/England and deals with PTSD and depression.
1. Chapter 1

A crack of thunder. A scream.

A flash of lightning. A whimper.

A dark room. A storm. A scarred man.

Scarred. Scarred from the horrors he's seen.

Don't think he's weak, that's wrong. It's wrong! So wrong, too wrong!

He only thinks he is.

He isn't.

He's just seen too much.

"Arthur?" A voice calls, different to the voice before. This voice has an accent that's strong and rich, like coffee in the morning to wake one up and smother the evils in the darkness; or at least, that's what it means to the man whose scream echoed through the house.

That's what it means to Arthur. Which is strange, because Arthur never used to like coffee… Well, it did correlate with their relationship.

"You are alright, da?" The accented – Russian – voice calls again.

He receives no answer.

Will never receive an answer in a thunder storm.

Heavy boots clunk down the hallway, their owner – the Russian – in search of Arthur.

A crack of thunder. A scream.

A flash of lightning. A whimper.

It starts again, in tune with the cycle of the storm, but this time combined with the frantic stomping of the heavy boots; their owner hurrying at the sounds of distress.

The sounds of the boots make Arthur flinch. It sounds like soldiers storming in…

"Arthur? Are you in the bedroom?" The Russian calls again.

" _No, Arthur isn't here_!" A voice in the scarred man's head snaps, " _He's dead, all gone; only his shell still remains. It's pitiful that a nation so full of promise could leave as sadly as that; a shell can be fixed, but it's still only a shell._ "

But the man doesn't open his lips. He's hugging his knees and quivering on the floor.

A crack of light. It's from the hallway, not the storm; but he flinches all the same.

He is unseeing; his mind's eye being assaulted by blood, bullets and bombs that ceased years ago.

Heavy boots. He shies away.

"It's only Ivan," The accented man soothes. He's now more careful with his steps.

Ivan kneels before Arthur – before the shell – and gently strokes a hand through the man's wild blond hair. "You are safe, I promise," Ivan assures and, when the other man shows no sign of resistance or violence, pulls him into a hug.

Arthur is in there. He knows it, he's seen it; but in these moments he has to calm him, make him feel better. He's not lost for good; only in thunderstorms, or hearing loud noises, or seeing scenes of war on the television.

Ivan will make him better; help him until the tremors stop. But even if they don't, he'll still stay.

After all, it's not like he isn't broken himself…

"Ivan?" It's a small voice, a small whimper, but Ivan smiles all the same.

"Yes Arthur, I am here," He assures, "I will _always_ be here."


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur was, mostly, a morning person. He'd be up at eight o'clock during work days, maybe nine on his days off, without fail.

During good days, Ivan was also a morning person. He'd be up at the same time as Arthur, maybe even before; therefore, he didn't mind his beloved's early movements.

However, good days were becoming more and more unusual...

* * *

Arthur awoke a few minutes after nine o'clock, sitting up with a yawn and a stretch. On Ivan's good days, the Russian would sometimes pretend to be asleep; only cracking an eye open to catch a quick peak at the sliver of pale skin that was exposed when Arthur's top slid up his slim torso.

He looked over at Ivan's side of the bed and smiled; Ivan really was cute when asleep.

He pressed a kiss to the larger man's temple and swung his legs out of bed, shivering at the loss of heat from the thick quilt, and threw on his dressing gown - the one Ivan bought him for Christmas; plush and soft, in a beautiful forest green colour to match his eyes.

He shuffled to the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

* * *

Darkness.

That is the only way he could describe how he felt: darkness.

Hot tears escaped his eyes from beneath their lids, dampening his pale lashes and making them feel sticky and heavy, emotion trying to bleed itself out.

Bleed.

Bleed.

Bleed.

His heart was a void. Did he even have one anymore? After all the bloodshed? It always popped out on it's own anyway, he probably lost it. He was probably better off without it; it was a nuisance to have to put it back in place all the time; and it scared people.

The door creaked open, he never did get around to oiling it as Arthur had asked. "Are you alright, love?"

All he could do is shake his head.

* * *

It was quarter past ten when Arthur looked at the clock from his seat at the kitchen table, a frown on this face.

' _Ivan would be up by now if he was having a good day..._ ' Arthur fretted, standing and making his way to their bedroom.

"Ivan?" He inquired, opening the door, "Are you alright, love?"

Arthur was silent as Ivan shook his head, and sat beside his lover on the bed; Ivan only seemed to tighten in the foetal position he'd curled up into.

"Do you feel like you can speak?" He asked, trying to gauge what state his love was in.

Another shake of Ivan's head, a few tear drops falling down his blotchy cheek.

Arthur smiled sadly at Ivan. "You're so strong, so beautiful; I love you," He reminded his lover, stroking his small hand through silver hair, "Would you like some breakfast? You should have something to eat."

Ivan looked hesitant, but nodded.

"Good," Arthur smiled, "Do you want to stay here?"

Another nod; Ivan didn't seem up for too much today, so agreeing to eat was enough for Arthur.

He kissed Ivan's cheek and went to make some toast; which he _wouldn't_ burn, thank you.

* * *

Ivan closed his eyes.

He felt like going back to sleep... He was so tired...

But he knew he had to eat, it'd upset his dear, sweet Arthur otherwise.

He always leeched off Arthur's happiness like the disgusting parasite he was. Arthur deserved all the happiness in the world, and yet he was stuck looking after the most pathetic -

"Hey, it's alright, love," Came Arthur's coo, along with the clink of plate against wood. There was a hand wiping at his cheeks and below his eyes.

A small sob. Ivan thought it was made by him, but was unsure.

"It's alright," Arthur soothed, "I love you... So much, Ivan. You know that, don't you?"

Logically, he does. But then, logic never had anything to do with this. He knows Arthur loves him, but the illness in his head makes the defined lines of knowledge blurred.

He nods anyway, because he does know; he just doubts.

Arthur brushed his fringe from his forehead, and Ivan looked up at the Brit. Arthur was smiling.

"Do you want me to help you sit up?" Arthur asked.

He nodded, again, and opens his mouth. "Da," His voice is hoarse, little above a whisper, but there.

Arthur helps him sit and rest against the headboard. He's fed the toast, a little at a time.

He gives Arthur a watery smile and says, "Я люблю тебя мой ангел."

With the morning light filtering through the gossamer curtains, illuminating Arthur's golden hair like a halo; he truly believes the term of endearment.

"мой ангел хранитель..."

* * *

 **Translations:**  
 **Я люблю тебя мой ангел - I love you, my angel.**  
 **мой ангел хранитель - My guardian angel.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not speak Russian, this is Google translate; please let me know if I messed up.**


End file.
